I Am Going To Become The Epitome Of Health.

So I've decided that if I can't drink with these bloody pills, I'll use it as an excuse to start getting healthy. Well, that and I've been sitting on my arse all week and I swear I can't get into my jeans. Any of them.

So, starting tomorrow, I am going to do the following things;

- eat healthy (brown bread and rice, wholemeal wherever possible, lots of veg, no junk food, definitely no dairy)
- except for Sundays, where I can eat anything I want guilt free. The secret to a good diet is not being too hard on yourself. Plus, like I can go a whole month without a bloody cheeseburger.
- drink 2 litres of water (or thereabouts) a day. Something about 2 liters of water being good for you. Or possibly what you need to survive. Don't remember.
- exercise. Heat video and Pilates For Dummies. Done.
- go swimming. I always forget how much I like swimming until I get off my arse and go.

Okay, this is getting a bit Bridget Jones so I'll stop with the self improvement list. But I'm bored, and feeling like shit. And that is always the perfect time to change things and get healthy.

Well that and I think I might get laid soon. Cute drummer bartender (Rocket Boy) just broke up with his girlfriend.

ARE YOU RECYCLING?? ARE YOU?!

Am stuck in bed, having been through the worst toothache you could possibly imagine, NHS emergency dentist sent me home with antibiotics. This may sound like a good thing, but the brand I'm on you cannot drink with. Fuck. So I'm not actually, literally house-bound, but I'm sort of cowering in my room because I know, as soon as I leave my flat, I'll go to the pub. I haven't yet acquired the willpower to keep myself away from having a little drink so I know that somehow, I will end up at the pub. And evidently, this will lead me straight to the hospital.

So, I've been massively bored at home watching re-runs of Mock The Week on Dave, which I used to love but now bores me. But Russell Howard (who I think is lovely and very sweet but not hugely funny. I'm a Frankie Boyle kind of girl) did a skit I'd never seen before that made me laugh so hard I nearly pissed myself. I didn't, though.

My Little Travelling Man.

I realise this is a shameless indulgence, but I just had to put it out there..

I love my cat.

There, I said it. But I don't just love him in your everyday I-love-my-pet sort of way, I actually love him. Well, not in a sexual way, obviously, because that would be insane. But in a part-of-my-heart sort of way. He is, without exception, the only man in my life to have always loved me, always been there for me, and never hurt me. Well, not on purpose - he can't help having claws. And, in his few 5 years on this planet, he's moved to 4 different houses with me, never minding because we were together. My little travelling man.

The Fun Of A Little Crush

I've actually now decided that flirting is the answer.

Went out with Pickled Lily and Charolastra No.1 two weeks ago, to a cheap studenty pub in town for a few drinks, and ended up having a bit of a large one, where 4 bottles of wine and several round of shots later, we found ourselves going from drinking amongst a bunch of French teenagers (one of whom looked like Shia LeBoeuf, to Pickled Lily's immense delight), to chatting to some random Yanks, to me eye flirting with a Robert Pattinson lookalike, to Pickled Lily trying, unsuccessfully, to set up Charolastra with what turned out to be a Hungarian drunk, to me spending 20 minutes picking 3 songs on the jukebox.

On our 3rd bottle of £6 wine, me and Charolastra went on a bit of a prowl, scoping out the pub for hot boys and I decided the bartender was cute (I think I have a problem with being drawn to bartenders. Maybe it's something about the constant backdrop of booze I find appealing..) but due to my disappointment at somehow losing the Robert Pattinson lookalike, I didn't pursue. So Charolastra, being the natural matchmaker that she is, flounces over to him and his group of mates, and starts chatting to one of them. Me and Pickled Lily look at each other, equally bemused and amused, and after a few minutes I catch on to her plan and go over to talk to the cute bartender under the pretence of "Hi, you've sort of hi-jacked my mate.." and we end up flirting all night, and he initiates the ever-classic "Let's play a game of pool" routine, where I get to check out his bum and he gets to look down my top, all under very sexy down-lighting. It becomes evident we're both pro's at flirty banter, and I like him immediately.

We rejoin the table, and Pickled Lily has discovered one of his mates is an old friend of ours (who used to have 2 personalities - one of which was quiet and withdrawn, the other a bit of a scary sociopath. He's decided to stick with the former, it turns out.) and Charolastra No.1 does some very handy information scouting, to discover that the cute bartender is a drummer in 2 bands, so we chat about music (possibly the biggest turn-on for me) and somehow I end up undoing the top buttons of his shirt, and he ends up sexily taking my sunglasses from my cleavage. Loving the flirt, I'm annoyed to see Charolastra mouthing something at me. I lean towards her.

"He has a girlfriend."

Ah.

At this point I'm relatively drunk - in fact, the above event's may not be an accurate timeline, as I'm suddenly realising that when we started playing pool I already knew he had a girlfriend... But anyway, thats not the point. We flirted for the rest of the night, and at closing we swapped numbers (for business purposes obviously, I may have been drunk, but I had my promoter hat on for a while there!) and had a very sexy goodbye where he smelt my hair and I stroked the back of his neck.

I get home, a happily wasted bus ride later, to a lovely text from him. I leave it til the next morning to text him back, and from then we've spent the last 2 weeks text-flirting non stop. Literally. At least 5 texts from him a day, from sexy innuendo, to teasing, to actual getting to know you questions.. obviously every now and then I slip in a mention that he has a girlfriend (it would appear he has to be reminded).

But, to reach my final point - I forgot how much fun flirting can be. Proper, cheeky, sexy banter is the best. And even more pleasing (if you ignore the moral implications) with a guy with a girlfriend. It's the best way, particularly when you're getting over a breakup. You get the fun of a little crush, of feeling sexy in an ego-boost sort of way, but with no pressure of "where is this going?" because it's not going anywhere - he has a girlfriend. And a selfish, awful, petty part of you can't help but think I'm obviously sexier than her.. because there's nothing more honest in terms of attraction, than a guy who's already getting laid, wanting you.

In conclusion, ladies - flirting is the answer!

Getting The Fight Back.

Have decided today that not giving a fuck is the answer.

Had a bit of a meltdown earlier, and called Pickled Lily, sobbing uncontrollably. She came over with some wine and I sort of let out lots about how crap everything is. Even though everything is actually pretty okay - I may be having a bit of a personality breakdown.

It was my first night as a promoter on Tuesday and it went unbelievably well - we sold out, the bands were awesome (except a particular band, who were fucking tosspots. But they're biggish, so I shouldn't mention their name. let's just say they like their fruit at room temperature. Rock and roll.) and the whole night was a bloody success. And I've done so much work for it the last month or 2, so I should have been happy - fucking ecstatic in fact, but I wasn't. And that terrified me.

Turns out I can't even be happy or proud of myself, when I do something that I love, amazingly well.

Anyway, much soul-searching crisis talk and we've come to the conclusion that I need my don't-give-a-fuck attitude back. I used to be a fighter, and a ballsy motherfucker. I just need to stop worrying about everyone else, and whether or not they're having a good time, or if I'm interesting or funny or pretty enough for them, and if they're happy in their own lives, and just look after myself a bit. A lot, actually. I need to remember to look after myself properly, as no-one else is going to. I love my (few) real friends, but they have their own lives, and need to look after themselves too.

I just need to get the fight back.

A Cup Of Tea, A Fag, And A Cream Coloured Jumper.

Feeling quite pathetic.

I got some dry cleaning picked up today. I never do dry cleaning - I can never afford it, and I don't see the point. But I'd forgotten I had some stuff done a few months ago, and never collected it. Got home and opened it up to find a few dresses, and a large cream coloured jumper that I recognised immediately..

When Darcy took me to Wiltshire to stay in his country house for the weekend in February, I was so nervous and excited and clueless as to what people wear in the country, and so panicked that he should see the nightmare that is my face/hair combination first thing in the morning on only our 2nd date, that I filled my weekend bag with mainly makeup and hair product. The result being, I spent the weekend with perfect hair and impeccable makeup, but inappropriately dressed in every possible way. I brought a little cream dress, a pair of cream slacks, and a strap top. In my head I had the weekend planned out. I pictured us lunching, me in my pretty cream dress, him casual in a shirt and jeans, in a quaint little sunlit country pub, then walking through little country lanes hand-in-hand, then spending the night curled up by the fire, drinking wine and sharing secrets. Then we'd go for an early morning stroll around the grounds and maybe we'd take some horses and wander around til we stumble upon a little stream where we'd stop for a picnic, like a cross between a new-age Mr. Darcy and Eliza Bennett, and a Holland&Holland catalogue.

Obviously, we got there and I was immediately intimidated by his giant family house, marble columns and all, and I felt more out-of-place the more comfortable he seemed. Having not thought it through at all, I realised I'd only brought strappy sandals, which aren't particularly appropriate for walking through muddy fields, so I had to wear his mum's pink trainers (which sort of ruined my pretty white dress/headscarf ensemble) and I felt like an ignorant city retard, who didn't know how to dress herself. And we went for a little ride on his horses, which I'd forgotten are fucking massive. Seriously, up close, a horse is terrifying. Added to that, I remembered a latent childhood repressed experience where I'd gone for horse riding lessons at around 12yrs old, and my horse (named Whiskey) bolted from the field and galloped for miles, dragging me behind as I'd caught my foot in the stirrup.

Anyway, the whole day was a disaster, but we got home that evening and I had a shower while he made dinner, and I came down to discover he'd laid out the dinner table in the main room, with the best china, candles, and a perfectly cooked meal. At which I point couldn't take it - told him the one dress I'd brought was now covered in grass stains, I'd had enough of pretending to be elegant and poised, and just wanted to go to bed, with a cup of tea and a cigarette. At which we looked at each other, him in a shirt and jacket, me in a towel with a fag in hand, and we laughed. We spent a glorious hour watching telly on the sofa with some some tea and toast.

But then the door rang, at around 10pm, and about fifteen people came in, dressed to the nines, for a 'surprise' party as they'd heard he was in town. He greets them all, as they burst in chattering and pouring themselves drinks - I'm mortified, on the sofa in a strap top and pyjama bottoms, trying to sneak out unnoticed but a big burly posh chap notices me and booms "Aha! We've interrupted something have we, old boy?" I shit you not, he actually used the words 'old boy'. Although these belonged to the breed of people who probably called girls "fillies" and said "hurrah" without irony.

So, Darcy introduced me to everyone (including, may I add, his then ex - now current- girlfriend) and I had to shake all their never-done-a-real-days-work-in-my-life hands and pretend I wasn't wearing pyjamas. Then we all communed for drinks, and it was like a sick 50's parody that nobody but me had noticed - the girls sat in the study drinking white wine and tittering about some local gossip while the boys cracked open some port and went outside to play polo and talk about the stock market. I felt like an alien. Or like I'd stumbled onto a different planet where the people didn't realise they were aliens. I just wanted to run back to London, to the nearest bar to get drunk and chat shite with normal people, who say things because they mean them, not because it sounds clever and looks good with Burberry.

Anyway, I managed to escape by going to my room to change into my grass-stained dress, and grab my emergency stash of ciggies. I then went back downstairs and hid round the corner (in a huge country estate, 'round the corner' is equivalent to walking the breadth of Oxford Street) and chain smoked my way through the evening. It got to midnight and I was freezing, and annoyed at myself for not having the balls to go back in and be really witty and sarcastic and secretly smug whilst winning them over with my bohemian-ness, but instead sitting miserably on my own while Darcy was probably inside having lots of fun with her.

But just as I was contemplating dialling a cab, and pondering if my bank balance could take such a beating, and whether or not that would be wildly melodramatic, Darcy came out with a cup of tea and 2 glasses of wine, smiling at me apologetically.

"I'm sorry about this. They're all family friends and my brother accidentally told them I was here for the weekend and they took it as an open invitation. They're really not as bad as they seem.."

He sat down next to me and leaned back.

"I've given them a distraction now, though, so that should keep them busy for a while" He said, mysteriously.

"And what sort of distraction would that be?"

He smirked and put his arm around me. "That's I'm becoming romantically involved with someone who's never heard the phrase 'Stepford Wife'.."

I was thrilled.

"I think you'll find I was top of my Stepford Wife class at finishing school" I replied sarcastically, with a raised eyebrow, inwardly relieved and delighted.

We sat outside and talked for ages, and he suddenly noticed I was shivering a little, so he took off his jumper and wrapped it around me. I snuggled into its' softness, and we snuggled into each other, under the pretext of warmth, and we sat in comfortable silence, looking up at the stars.

I took that jumper home with me by mistake, and he wore it every time he stayed over at mine, and took it off for me every time I was cold. I used to love sleeping in it when it was chilly outside, feeling protected in a primal sort of way, but mostly I loved how when I took it off, my skin smelt of him for the rest of the day.

Picking it out of the bag of dry cleaning today it looked different to how I remember. It had that off-the-hanger impersonal newly washed feel to it. But as I brought it up to my face, I caught a faint but unmistakable scent. Darcy.

So here I sit, in all my pathetic glory, cup of tea and fag in hand, thinking about our 2nd date, and wearing his favourite cream wool/cashmere jumper, smelling him on me.

Don't worry. I know how tragic this is.

Just Keep Walking.

I was out for dinner with Yankeedoodle last Friday, just a quiet catch-up drink with a bottle of wine and a steak baguette. It was to be a lovely, chilled little dinner with us chattering about the various job/man/money-related situations in our lives, and planning our perfect holiday retreat that we can't afford - as is our general dinner routine. Then we were going to join Charolastra No.1 at a pub in North London, so we dined in Hampstead Cafe Rouge. It was a warm, gorgeous evening, sun setting behind a quietly pink sky, so we sat on the terrace overlooking the main road, just us two girlies.

Halfway through dinner, and halfway through the bottle of wine, and halfway through me catching her up on the Darcy situation (at which Yankeedoodle repeatedly used the phrase "what a cunt!" to sound like "wwwhaddacunt" in a British accent. I taught her that inadvertantly, and it makes me proud when she uses it at appropriate moments like this!), Yankeedoodle glances behind me and interrupts our excited profanity-ridden feminist rambling.

"Screw Darcy and his cowardly silence, and his lies, and his damn Nataahsha girl. If you'd have stayed with him you would have ended up a Charlotte girl. And you, my dear, are not a Charlotte girl. You're a Carrie."

That's the second time someone's said that to me this week. Maybe I should get a haircut. Or get some friends who don't watch Sex And The City.

"And you just need to remember that, and forget him. Starting with.." I look behind me to follow Sarah's suggestive line of vision, and she nods her head to a group of guys sitting outside a restaurant on the other side of the road. "Cute, right?"

I stare at them for a minute, close my eyes and start to laugh bitterly to myself, then turn back to her.

"Erm.. which one dyou reckon is cute?"

"The tall, blonde one." she answers, "He's so your type."

"..I think you'll find he's a strawberry blonde.."

Yankeedoodle looks at me strangely, and I raise an eyebrow pointedly.

"Wha..?" She pauses and looks back at the guys. Pauses again, then back at me. "Wait, what..?"

I start to shake my head defeatedly into my glass of wine. She registers the look of mild disbelief on my face, and looks back at them.

"Oh my God, are you serious? Is it him? It can't be him.. Oh my God.."

For fucks sake. It's Darcy, obviously. Because evidently there is a God, and it turns out he just can't get enough of taking the piss out of me at every fucking opportunity. Darcy is sitting across the road - the cheek of it - as if he's a real bloody person who's a) very much NOT in Greenland, b) not wearing some sort of mark of Abel (or was it Cain?) for breaking my heart, thus being ostracised from society biblical-style, and c) sitting with 2 of MY friends.

"For fucks sake. This is ridiculous. This sort of shit only happens on tv... to Bridget Jones... if she were on Hollyoaks. Mate, this is ridiculous. We need to leave." I say, heart beginning to pound as the realisation of him actually being there sets in.

And I'm confused, as I've spent the last 2 months longing with every fibre of my being to touch him, to kiss him, to smile at him, to hear his voice, for him to just be there in any fucking capacity, and suddenly he's actually there. Albeit he hasn't come for me, and he's on the other side of the road but fuck it, I can actually, literally, see him. It's surreal.

And in a flash, my mind races through all the things I should do at this moment..

..I could go over there, and - oh God, could I actually go over there?
..I could shout his name, then hide behind my menu. And ask Yankeedoodle if he looked over or not.
..I could shout his name then wave at them, and turn back and finish my steak baguette as if this was all perfectly normal.
..I could go over there, throw my glass of wine over him then turn on my heels and storm off, to the sound of applause and Ricky Lake audience-style Americans shouting "You go girl!" while he stares after me, forlorn and humiliated, and dripping wet, while his friends all titter at him.
..I could go over there and put my arms around him and tell him I love him, and he would tell me how miserable he was without me, and how he was so heartbroken he swam back from Greenland on the back of a giant turtle, because he so couldn't bear being in a different country to me.
..I could walk past them and make some cutting remark like "Oh, I didn't realise I was so far from town, I thought I was in Hampstead, but I must be in Greenland.." and flash him an icy glare that would turn him into a crumpled heap on the floor.
..I could duck under the table and crawl to the toilets, and live there for the rest of my life. Or at least until he leaves.
..I could go and actually say all the things I've wanted to say to him. I love you, I miss you, I want you, I'm really hurting, I need to know if you feel these things, I need to know if you feel anything at all. I need something. Anything.
..I could be mature, or pseudo-mature and go over and say hi, smile sadly but kindly at him, and walk away beatifically, making them all feel hideously guilty for being such bloody crap friends/boyfriend.
..I could sit here and pretend not to have seen him, until he sees me -

-- oh God, what if he sees me??--

Suddenly I realise if I can see him, he can see me. But of course I want him to see me. Wait, no, obviously I don't! Oh please don't let him see me, shit what if he sees me? What do I do? Hide, I have to hide, we have to hide. We have to leave, we have to leave before he sees me.

But obviously, every bone in my body is screaming See me!! Look at me, I'm over here!!

I look at Yankeedoodle, who's staring at me intently, frantically, stunned. It seems like an hour's gone by, but it's barely been a minute. I realise I haven't said anything, and the look on my face must have given me away because she was looking at me like I'd just sprouted a beard, and told her I had won the lottery and spent it all on wasabi peas. And that at any minute I was going to cut all my fingers off and stick them to the top of my head.

"Come on, let's go." she says, tentatively.

But I can't, I'm frozen. Like every other train wreck, I can't look away.

"Come on mate, let's just go. This is too weird.. Have some wine." She says, finishing both her glass and mine.

But all I can do is stare at him, at them, as if they're a scene on tv and I'm waiting for something to happen, for the leading lady to come in. And, as if on cue.. she enters.

A tall, blonde, skinny, clean and rich looking Natasha girl glides over to them, and sits - wait for it - on his lap. Her perfect blonde hair just brushes his cheek, and he leans into her, smiling.

I couldn't believe it. I literally could not believe the pain being projected into my eyes. If it was a Warner Brothers cartoon, my jaw would have dropped onto the table, I would have rubbed my bulging eyes in disbelief, a 100-pound anvil would have fallen on my head. As it was, I barely blinked. But my heart was pounding in my ears and I couldn't feel my legs. My chest felt like it was going to cave in, and pieces of my mind just crumbled away like a wet cake.

The next thing I know, I'm halfway down the street, looking incredulously at my feet, at my little black sandals and wondering who is moving them so quickly? How are they moving so quickly when everything around me is so slow? I look to my left and Yankeedoodle is walking alongside me, her hand clasped around my arm firmly. Everything starts to become normal pace and I realise what's happening.

Fucking hell.

I somehow gain control of my legs. We slow down a little and Yankeedoodle looks over at me.

"Don't look back." She says quietly, almost inaudibly.

I feel a lump rise in my throat as I realise they're literally metres behind me.

Good enough to waste some time..

I close my eyes and pray my feet keep walking. I don't understand what's happening.

Tell me would it make you happy, baby?..

Just keep walking. This isn't really happening. He's not.. she's not.. Just keep walking.

We could keep trying but things will never change..

The words of a song echo in the back of my mind, and I feel sick.

Still I'm dying with every step I take..

I can feel them behind me, getting slowly further away. Oh God, he looked so happy.

I close my eyes and try to suffocate the image of him that appears to be burned onto my retinas.

Just don't look back.

And it hurts with every heartbeat..

And it hurts with every heartbeat..

But I don't look back..

And it hurts with every heartbeat..

The words loop and blur into one another as I feel the wind on my face and tears sting the back of my eyes.

And I don't look back..
Still I'm dying with every step I take..
And I don't look back.. Just a little little bit better.. And it hurts with every heartbeat.. Tell me would it make you happy, baby.. But I don't look back.. Good enough to waste some time.. And it hurts with every heartbeat.. And it hurts with every heartbeat.. Still I'm dying with every step I take..


But I don't look back.

A Familiar, If Unidentifiable, Feeling

I think maybe I need to start (or attempt to start) some sort of emotional overhaul. And also possibly some sort of literal overhaul. Is overhaul even the word I'm looking for?

Basically I'm feeling very..something. And I've been feeling very something for a while now, and that something feeling is building up and suddenly I want to overhaul.

Yeah, so that didn't make any sense, even to me.

I'll try again..

I think I need to sort myself out a bit.

I've started retreating into myself, and getting edgy, and feeling like I'm behind on everything (possibly because I am), but this feeling is a familiar (if unidentifiable) feeling that I tend to get when I'm not taking care of myself, and it's when some mysterious sensible voice in my head says "Right, stop ignoring everything and start figuring out what you need to sort out". Except it doesn't say it in those exact words, it starts off saying things like "Do the dishes", and I ignore it.

So after a while it says things like "Clean up the flat. You need to organise your wardrobe, desk etc" and I ignore it.

Then a few days later it says things like "Start eating better, you're getting fat and feeling rubbish", and I ignore it.

So it begins to say things like "Start thinking about your work and uni, and what exactly you're going to do about them come September - because it's nearly August", and I ignore it for a few more days.

So it says things like "Stop being secretly depressed about Darcy. Address all the new and old pain you're feeling and stop being such a coward." and I ignore it.

So eventually it says "Look, if you're not going to help yourself, nobody else bloody well will so for Christ's sake- do the damn dishes, clean up the flat, organise all your crap, start being healthy so you don't feel like shit all the time, figure out your plans for work and uni so you don't feel so guilty all the time, get over Darcy once and for all so you're not so fucking miserable all the time, and for God's sake - get on with it!"

And I find myself unable to ignore it. But too sulky at being told off to do anything about it.

Now who's voice is that, shouting at me in my head? Hmm? My subconscious? No, my subconscious is busy pretending not to think about Darcy in lots of compromising, sexual, loving, heartwrenching positions with the latest Nataahsha girl to happen upon everything that I want.

My conscience? No, I suspect my moral compass is still trying desperately to find North..or East, or wherever it is that righteousness lies!

My mother? No, although there is much profanity and guilt-tripping, the voice is being helpful and giving me a metaphorical, not literal, kick up the arse.

I suppose it must be just the sensible part of me, which I've ignored for so long now it's given up and broken off and become it's own entity entirely, stopping in only occasionally to shout at me when I'm being really rubbish.

Christ, have just realised I'm coming off as a bit schizophrenic, as although speaking metaphorically about said voice, I have anthropomorphised it to a somewhat unusual degree..

Feel a bit mental actually - I do hope I'm not going crazy.

--------------

NB: Ahh. Am definitely not going crazy, thanks to very clever quote I've just remembered, in manner of very wise well-read person - "Crazy people don't know they're going crazy - they think they're getting saner". It's always nice when you get a flash of wisdom from inner self like that, almost as if to counteract all the feelings of inadequacy and intellectual insecurity.

--------------

NB: Bollocks. Have just realised quote is in fact by John Locke. Not the empirical philosopher, but the character in an episode of Lost.

Cheap Kicks.

So I went out last night, to meet Mystery for a back-in-town-for-Summer drink at our little local pub. We were meeting for 8:30, so I got to the pub at 7 to have a quiet drink on my own. I ended up flirting with a whole table of guys (relatively cute, if poncey Kensington-esque posh boys) and brazenly picking one of them as my prey for the night. He was attractive, quite tall, dark hair, dressed a bit like he thought he was Hugh Grant, but whatever. I took him out for a smoke and coquetteishly told him I'd accidentally turned up an hour early to meet a friend.. and whatever was I going to do to fill up that spare time..?

So we made out in the garden like schoolkids behind the bike shed. A half hour later, we got a bit carried away so I got up and brushed myself off (damn Summer grass) and Hugh Grant asked if he could see me again. I smiled at him sadly and thanked him for the kisses, which were lovely.

Me and Mystery went for dinner, and he walked me home as the sun was setting. He's seeing someone, for the first time properly since we broke up, and he had that new-relationship glow about him. It was sweet, and nice to see him not miserable for once.

I went home and spent the rest of the night thinking about Darcy, and trying not to cry.

-----------

Put me in the cab, it's raining outside
Had it up to here - this is the last time.
You kissed my on my throat in broad daylight,
And we were like two kittens in a playfight.

It didn't last a week, I could have told you so
You were too much for me, and I didn't let you know
So now you loathe me, you've gone to the dark side
And I'm in somebody's arms to get you off my mind

Cheap kicks are alright.
If you don't know what's good for you tonight.
Cheap kicks are alright,
If you don't know what's good for you sometimes.

A million hearts are broken every hour
It'll be okay, don't let the milk turn sour.
Now there'll be no more going through the motions
And there'll be no more drowning in sweet oceans.

It didn't last a week - I could have told you so
You were too much for me, and I didn't let things grow
And now you've left me, gone to the dark side
And I'm in somebody's arms to keep you off my mind.

Cheap kicks are alright..
If I don't know what's good for me tonight.

The Natasha Syndrome.

So it's taken me a few days to be able to write this, and let's try and ignore the link between this piece of news and the stupid thing I did yesterday..

I found out last week that Darcy is seeing his ex girlfriend. As in seeing his ex girlfriend. As in full blown couple. As in his "Oh, it's all in the past, I barely even speak to her, I never felt about her the way I feel about you" ex girlfriend.

I actually met her on our second date - where he took me to his country house in Wiltshire for a gorgeous romantic minibreak which was entirely destroyed by the surprise presence of some of his countrified pimms-a-clock arses of friends, and his judgemental jodhpur-clad skinny blonde pearl-and-cardigan-wearing Stepford-esque humourless husk of an ex girlfriend who all together made me feel like some tatty Ab-Fab junkie from the city. I spent the entire night secretly comparing myself to her and genuinely wondering what he saw in her/saw in me.

It's the bloody tall sleek girl syndrome. No matter how confident and comfortable in my own skin, and proud of all my eccentricities, and my clothes, and my friends and my life I am, I will always feel like a silly little girl when faced with a tall, sleek-haired, well-put-together girl. You know the type. They're a rare, but intimidating breed. I like to call it the Natasha (pronounced Nataaahsha) Syndrome, as I can think of no more perfect a comparison than when Carrie Bradshaw meets Natasha for the first time, Big's new fiancee from Paris. Carrie stumbles into them at a party, and there she is - tall, dark shiny hair, cleanly silhouetted in one long plain but elegant dress, looking clean and crisp like linen, in the way only those kind of women can, and Carrie stumbles into her, holding a cocktail and wearing a bikini and a straw cowboy hat.

This is how girls like Darcy's ex make me feel. Although I may have spent the night looking gorgeous, making clever and witty conversation, being the smart, interesting person that I am - put me next to a Natasha girl and suddenly I'm wearing a bikini and a cowboy hat, feeling utterly foolish.